


A John Cocoon (3 +1 Story)

by Breath4Soul



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (ಠ‿↼), A little bit racy, Beginnings, Caretaker John, Deductions, Fantasizing, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Games, Implied Sexual Content, Inappropriate Erections, Jealous John, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Pining Sherlock, Post Mary, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Tension, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, Sherlock Makes Deductions, Sherlock-centric, Sweet John, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-14 08:48:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5737267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breath4Soul/pseuds/Breath4Soul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>When Sherlock was away destroying Moriarty’s network alone, fantasies about John became his comfort drug. Now returned and post-Mary, Sherlock just wants to wrap himself in a John cocoon. One rainy morning and some deductions will change things. </b><br/><i>( 3 +1) Three times when Sherlock and John missed their chance and the one time they didn't.</i><br/>_______________________</p><blockquote>
  <p>Clawing, scraping and burning his way through the darkness of Moriarty’s world to destroy his network, Sherlock had relied on the memory of John to keep himself human. When Sherlock was bruised and broken and at his most desperate he would sink away from the world to imagine the comfort of John beside him. When he felt most lost and alone he would replay certain moments in vivid detail and he found that, in his mind, he could change them so that all the pain slipped away. He had turned John Watson into his own personal drug to numb the pain, quiet his mind and soothe his soul... and now he was in <i>withdrawal.</i><br/></p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	A John Cocoon (3 +1 Story)

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [23emotions](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/23emotions) collection. 



> OK I am not going to lie this is a little fluff and smut, because we all want a happy ending for these guys and if we can't have it in the series _(yet -* fingers crossed*)_ by God I am going to write at least one sickly sweet fluff story where they finally make it! Bonus: this has 3 imagined firsts and one _real_ first - so, hopefully, 3xs more satisfying!
> 
>  
> 
> **If you like it show me some love with Kudos or comment!**

The comfortable quiet of another dreary evening settles over 221B. The rain tapping on the window and roof is like a curtain drawn against the chaos of the world; it drowns out the sound of the city and makes the room feel small and intimate. 

From his position lying on his back on the couch Sherlock can attune himself to the familiar heartbeat of the flat; the comforting mix of noises, like an often played symphony that blurs together the past and present. It is as if everything that ever _was_ still _is_ and always _will be_ just like this.

He drinks in the sound of the kettle warming on the stove, the crackle of the fire, John taking slow and steady breaths and John’s fingers making the slightest rustling sound as he runs them over the edge of the paper as he reads it. John shifts in his chair, making a delicate scraping sound on the floor boards; a vibration that skitters across the room, up the leg of the sofa and into Sherlock. 

He relishes these noises because he knows that the sensation of permanence is deceptive. He has been deprived of this peacefully mundane bliss far too often. The sounds of _‘life with John Watson’_ are not to be taken for granted. The possibility of losing all this again is a small but persistent needling at the back of his mind.

He opens his eyes and discreetly studies the profile of John in his battered winged back chair. The light from the fire sifting through his dark blue irises gives his eyes a soft sparkle and his long blonde lashes make lazy jumps with each blink as he gazes down at the paper in his lap. His sandy brown hair, salted with gray, makes him look older; more distinguished. His military haircut is getting a bit long for John’s usual taste; he is, no doubt, planning a trim soon. The ends brush the tops of his ear and curl a little at the nape of his neck drawing the eye towards the strong cut of his jawline. His jawbone is a hard, straight edge against his sturdy neck, terminating at his narrow chin which, even at this angle, he can discern has a cleft - a perfect dimple at its center. Such a chin is said to denote stubbornness of personality. Sherlock fights the upward curl of his lips into a smile every time he takes note of this feature. It is one of the few ways that the truth of John Watson is so strong that it is written in his flesh. 

From the side, John’s features seem harder and somewhat disconnected from the soft and caring expressions he can inexplicably transform them into as he looks directly at Sherlock. 

John Watson is a study in contradictions; fiercely hard one moment and remarkably gentle and tender the next. The interplay between the two extremes is a fascinating puzzle to the detective; a locked-door mystery he is never permitted to attempt to unravel. John is pleasingly unpredictable… and yet this is both the joy and the bane of his current existence. The control that John surrenders to him on a case is an illusion. He gives himself over freely to Sherlock's direction only within that context. Outside of the constraints of _The Work,_ John's boundaries; his limits and his willingness to tolerate Sherlock's demands upon him cannot be predicted, directed nor controlled. No matter how hard much he would like it to be so, he does not possess the power to direct John to do the one thing he wants most, _love Sherlock._

Yes, of course John _loves_ him. He has said as much. Sherlock often plays over that remarkable conversation with John in his head. He has spent whole days oblivious to the outside world as he is lost in his mind listening to John say he is 'one of the two people he _loves most in the world_ ' and that he is John's ' _best friend_.' His heart swells and flutters each time he replays John saying it. It seems impossible to gain an acceptable tolerance for those words. 

He knows John loves him well enough _in a way_ ; the way of best friends or maybe even with the tender affection of an older sibling. 

_Not like Mycroft, of course, but it seems there are siblings that have actual care and concern for each other._

The type of _love_ John currently provides is much better than anything Sherlock has experienced in his dark and lonely existence thus far. It is more than he has a right to ask for, really, and he knows he should content himself with that. Yet, for him, knowing John does not love him like he had once loved Mary, or even like any of John's lesser loves before her, feels like being gutted slowly with a dull and rusty knife. 

An ache he can only equate to the withdrawal from drugs settles deep inside him when he thinks of the ways John hasn't loved him; never will. Perhaps _can't?_

He should scorn the mental analogy of this lack of John’s full love to the experience of drug withdrawal (because, after all, one cannot _miss_ something that he has _never had_ ) but he knows the hard truth is that he has done this to himself. 

Clawing and scraping and burning his way through the darkness of Moriarty’s world to destroy his network, Sherlock had relied on the memory of John to keep himself human. When he was bruised and broken and at his most desperate he would sink away from the world to imagine the comfort of John beside him. When he felt most lost and alone he would replay certain moments in vivid detail and he found that he could, in his mind, change those moments so that all the pain and bitter regret slipped away. He turned John Watson into his own personal drug to numb the pain, quiet his mind and soothe his soul... and now he is in withdrawal.

He turns his head and lets his gaze rest on the ceiling. He brings his hands up and rests the fingertips together so they are steepled over his chest. His eyes drift closed and he descends into the place where the memories catalogued within his Mind Palace converges with his imagination and worlds spins together like galaxies colliding in the cold silence of outer space.

> John stands behind Sherlock in the moment when he is perched on the ledge of Bart's, prepared to jump to his death. He turns towards John. A hand, steady and gentle, rests on Sherlock's shoulder, then slides around his collar, up into the curls at the nape of his neck. Another wraps around his waist as John wordlessly draws himself up onto the ledge with Sherlock; clutching him in a gentle but firm embrace.
> 
> The kiss is inevitable. 
> 
> John draws him close and, in a moment that the doctor could persuade himself is to save Sherlock more than his heart at last revealing itself, John presses their lips together. The kiss is slow and sweet; both calm and confident. In that kiss is everything to heal all that is broken, to calm the chaos and to steel Sherlock for all that is to come. When John finally breaks away he rests his forehead against Sherlock's and tells him in the way that brooks all argument that they will figure it out _together._ They will destroy Moriarty’s network, they will save all their friends and they will survive clinging to each other, like two ships bound together in a storm. They step down off the ledge together.

\-------------------

Sherlock surfaces just a little. Enough to flutter his eyes halfway open and slide his eyes to John again; confirming he is really there. A real, flesh and blood John that would not fade into nothingness when he failed to concentrate on him at all times. His eyes slide closed again and he sinks down. 

> Sherlock shows up shortly after the fake suicide. He is waiting for John back at their flat. Perhaps it is a day or a week or a month later, but he is simply sitting in his chair when John comes home. 
> 
> John sinks to the floor in front of him.
> 
> There is no anger over countless, empty nights with those awful moments replaying in horrifying detail that will not let John sleep. It is just the relief that this was another clever trick of his. There is only the joy of a prayer answered and a miracle given.
> 
> There is a desperate hug; too firm and almost painfully crushing. This turns to weeping. John caves in against the hollow of Sherlock's chest, his shoulders shuddering out the pain and fear. It was just barely starting to sink in after the numbness and hope had worn off. 
> 
> Words then flow thoughtlessly from lips that had barely learned that bitterness of the regret found in every moment since Sherlock jumped. 
> 
> Then John's gentle, reverent, lips work to reassure his doubting mind that flesh is warm, pulse is strong and fast, breath is coming constant (if a bit shallow and quickened). Tender kisses grow more frantic and passionate and possessive. They become desperate, aching, until the drive and need and want are so overwhelming there is no room for fear or doubt. Just mouths and hands and bodies and bliss. 

Sherlock sighs heavily, surfacing from that place where his Mind Palace joins his imagination. He does not open his eyes this time.

The longer he'd remained apart from John the more bold his fantasies had become. It was somewhat like his conversations with John that he later found had only occurred in his mind; the line blurred. He had somehow expected the real John to know and to behave according to his own new reality. 

In his mind, John already loved him completely.

He had, therefore, fully expected his reunion with John to involve kissing and, in general, quite a bit _more_. Nothing had prepared him for the reality of a furious and violent John. A John with _Mary_. It was a rather abrupt wake up call to be standing on the pavement outside a third rate diner, still sore from the beatings endured while in Serbia, nursing a bloody nose that his former companion had inflicted. He found his eyes straining to catch some glimmer of the warmth John once so readily exuded towards him, as the furious man stood as far as he possibly could get away from Sherlock while still keeping an eye on his wife-to-be. 

Reality required quite a bit of mental readjustment. However, he came to terms with the painful truth that John only wanted him as a friend and received the friendship John gave him gratefully. 

There are some fates worse than death and one is a world where John Watson refuseds to so much as be near him. 

He endeavored to make right the emotional injury he caused the best man he has ever known. He strove to be the best possible friend in return for that forgiveness he most certainly didn't deserve.

However, the unspoken tends of their truce now proves to be a battle won and a war lost. The fortress of friendship that he has been relegated to seems inescapable Even now, with Mary out of the picture, and having fallen into their ‘normal’ flow of cases and companionable coexistence. 

It is like living with a ghost that only Sherlock can see. A spectre of _everything they never were except in Sherlock's mind_ casts its shadow over all their interactions. It puts its chill into every familiar comfort so that even as he now clings to each sound John makes, like it is as essential as the beats of his own heart in confirming he is, indeed, alive, John still seems impossibly far away.

The sting of this turns into the familiar want and ache that burns out Sherlock's insides and he sinks down into his imagination. As a balm, he allows himself one more escape.

> Sherlock is at the pool after he has ripped the bomb vest off of John. They’ve just narrowly escaped that terrifying encounter with Moriarty in which John offered his life up for Sherlock's own. 
> 
> John is crouching there, jumper hanging open, chest heaving, spark in his eye, thoroughly mussed up from Sherlock’s hasty hands. The things happening inside Sherlock as he gazes at John in this debauched state has rendered him barely able to look at John. 
> 
> John is willing to give him anything and everything in that moment. 
> 
> John makes a joke; a rather suggestive joke about him ripping John's clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. He throws John against the pool wall and makes it clear that he intends to do just that. 
> 
> He presses into John with a searing, passionate kiss. 
> 
> John’s growl bounces through the empty pool as he kisses back just as fiercely. 
> 
> Cool tile presses against overheated flesh and the sharp smell of chlorine mixes with their musky sweat in the air. 
> 
> It is not gentle kissing; it is adrenaline fueled, celebration of survival and relishing the madness kissing. There is sucking and biting and in the eagerness and haste there may be blood drawn. Pulses race and brains seize up and blink offline with the overwhelming onslaught of sensory input as sweaty, steamy, passionate sex unfolds in that darkened swimming pool.

Sherlock opens his eyes and looks down the length of his body. His pajama bottoms are tented prominently at the groin. He scorns himself for letting his thoughts stray too far down that path. His unruly transport is always out to betray him. He grabs the hem of his dressing coat and whips it over his lap, folding his arms over his chest, as if he is cold. He stands quickly and strides towards his room, intentional in not sparing a glance for John.

“Sherlock,” John calls before he can reach the door to the hall. Sherlock freezes.

“Yes, John,” he responded stiffly not turning towards him, his lanky frame is paused awkwardly in mid-stride.

“What were you thinking about just then?” Asks John not looking up from his paper. He waits and tension fills the silence. Sherlock can think of a dozen things to say that would end the conversation promptly but none of them near the truth. He made a vow to himself to be as truthful as possible with John since the fall. That, as well as everything with Mary, thoroughly wrecked John's ability to trust. 

“You looked at me for a long time and then you went into your Mind Palace... now you're leaving,” John points out. 

Sherlock mentally curses himself for being so obvious but then he also can't help but feel that familiar mixture of respect and intrigue that rises up in his chest when John proves himself surprisingly perceptive. He is always underestimating John and the man is always surprising him. 

“I'm _just_ going to my bedroom,” Sherlock states. He is grateful his voice manages to sound irritable rather than alarmed. He waits a moment then cautiously turns his head to settle his eyes on John. 

John is gazing at him with his eyebrows slightly raised. His expression is open and expecting. “You didn’t answer the question,” he points out with a small, patient smile. 

John's voice is calm and casual but that does nothing to prevent Sherlock’s body from setting in motion the gears of full blown panic. The hair on the back of his neck stands on end and sweat begins to dampen his already overheated body. He reflexively clutches his robe tighter, before forcing himself to breathe slowly and relax.

John’s face turns grim. “Have I done something wrong, Sherlock?… angered or… upset you?” 

Sherlock closes his eyes and swallows around the tightness in his throat. He opens his eyes and focuses on John. “No, I'm not angry, John... They is nothing _you_ have done.” 

The flatness of his tone would seem a clear contradiction to his statements and he winces a little. A different tone could have ended the conversation. _Damn body._ He turns his gaze back towards his bedroom door. He longs to be safe in his room away from the magnetic pull of John and his sedulous stare. 

John sighs. “Alright,” John’s gaze does not waver. “Then it is something I _haven't_ done.” Sherlock’s head whips around and he stares at John. He cannot prevent his eyes from widening, but he manages to tighten his jaw before his mouth drops open. 

None of this eludes John’s perception and he smiles knowingly.

“Right then.” John places the newspaper on his side table and stands. 

Sherlock shifts on the balls of his feet. He is still very aware of a certain insistent nuisance straining against the fabric of his pants. Simply walking away now will likely prompt some vehement reaction from John such as him storming out of the flat into the cold rain. At the very least it will require an explanation for which there is no truth that is without significant consequences. So, Sherlock remains.

“What is it, Sherlock?” John inquires as he moves towards him. He stands within arm's reach facing Sherlock in a relaxed but attentive manner. His feet are shoulder length apart and his left hand is clasping his right wrist behind his back. It is a military parade rest stance. He is ready for anything.

Sherlock takes in John facing him with all his usual casual, unperturbed bravery and suddenly feels very ashamed of his own cowardice. 

He tells himself that all these _feelings_ really are ridiculous. It is a matter of practicality. If Sherlock wishes to secure a life where he never has to do without the sound of John’s noises fluttering through the flat they share, something will have to change. Otherwise, John will find someone to love (like he did in Mary) and leave Sherlock again. He will have to be brave. He has found that for John, he can be remarkably brave.

“John,” Sherlock begins. He tucks his chin and glances up at John through his lashes. The doctor's dark blue eyes are crinkled at the corners and sparkling with warm fondness. _That improbable softness._ Sherlock feels the unusual sensation of his stomach swooping, like he is riding in a plane that made a sudden drop in altitude. He glances around to verify that the room is stable. His eyes are drawn back to John whose head is now slightly cocked to the side. “John,” he starts again. 

“I'm right here,” John murmurs with an amused smile as he tilts forward from the waist. His voice is soft and it sends a shiver up Sherlock’s spine causing a full body shudder. John's eyes narrow and he stares at Sherlock with more concern. Sherlock closes his eyes feeling overwhelmed. He is no good at this. He has bodged it up so many times before. From the corner of his Mind Palace, John is smiling warmly at him, licking his lips, drawing his body close...

“Mmm… _my_ … John,” Sherlock mutters and then snaps open his eyes in alarm at his own slip. “ _Friend_ , John” he corrects weakly to the real John before him. 

Sherlock frantically tries to analyze John's reaction as John just stares intensely. There are too many emotions flickering across John’s face that Sherlock can not isolate and identify. This all feels too risky. He shifts to take a step away and John advances and takes him lightly by the wrist. He is paralyzed again, staring at John's hand encircling his wrist. The warmth radiating outward from that touch scrambles everything inside him like an electric shock.

“Yeah,” John says softly. He smiles up at Sherlock with gentle encouragement. “What do you need, Sherlock?”

“A moment,” Sherlock breathes with some effort at steeling himself. Sherlock turns his wrist in John's loose grasp so his fingertips rest on the inside of John's wrist over his pulse. Gathering his strength, he draws himself up and narrows fiercely heated eyes on John. 

“John,” he says in his deepest baritone. He turns his body to face John and leans into his space. He watches as John’s eyes flick to his lips, his neck and quickly trail down his body before darting back to meet his eyes, pupils a little more dilated. 

“I deduce that you derive pleasure from the touch of the newsprint and ink against your fingertips. You could get almost any information you could get from a newspaper online these days, and much more current at that, but you enjoy the experience of reading a paper. Its physical presence fulfills a tactile requisite. You stroke and almost fondle the pages absently in quiet moments.” 

John’s lips turn up in a faint smile, the usual awe that accompanies Sherlock's deductions mixed with something more intense.

“Excellent deduction,” John murmurs. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. Sherlock notes the uptick in John's pulse. “Any other features of interest here?” John inquires with a growing smile.

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock responds, his voice gone husky. He takes another small step forward closing the distance between them. Sherlock notes John's change in breathing. Time to step into the ledge then. “But I draw attention to this particular behavioural quirk because there are, perhaps, _more productive_ activities with which to satisfy a need for tactile sensory input.” 

John smirks. His thumb on Sherlock's wrist begins stroking small circles and Sherlock feels lightheaded as his knees wobble and his own breathing picks up.

“Mmm… Yes. I do see your point,” John replies calmly.

It takes a significant effort for Sherlock to pull his focus away from the point where John's thumb is making lazy circles on the soft skin of his inner wrist. When he recovers capability for coherent thought he notes how John's pulse has become quite rapid and the deep blue of his eyes has nearly disappeared in the growing black of his pupils. 

“I also deduce that…” Sherlock pauses, weighing his options. He didn't want to move too fast. Things are going so well but... it is still within bounds of friendship. “You derive pleasure from warmth on a cold, rainy day such as today. You initiated a fire, though the temperature of the flat hardly warrants such a measure. You have been ensconced as near as advisable to the fire all morning. It is likely the warmth soothes your aches from the injuries you have endured.” 

John nods making a humming sound of agreement. He purses his lips a moment.

“And you suggest that there is an... _alternative means_... to enjoy... warmth?” John’s lips turn up in slight amusement and his eyebrows arch, suggesting he is intrigued. Sherlock holds his breath and nods slowly at his friend.

The kettle goes off and Sherlock jumps. John gives his wrist a reassuring squeeze and pulls him gently to the couch.

“Sit. I'll be back,” John instructs kindly but firmly. 

Sherlock sits down and listens to John moving around the kitchen. Metallic ting of kettle clicking off. Cabinet door creak and ceramic against formica worktop; two mugs taken down from the cabinet. Hot liquid poured. Feet on staircase to John's room. Floorboards creaking and slower descent; feet shuffling as if carrying something. 

Sherlock looks up as John emerges from the kitchen holding a thick wool blanket in one arm and the two mugs, clasped by their handles, in the other hand. He places the steaming mugs on the table in front of Sherlock and unraveles the blanket. 

The blanket is rather large, olive green and of an almost cashmere, soft texture. As John wraps it over Sherlock’s shoulders he closes his eyes, overwhelmed by the intoxicatingly strong scent of John that clings to it. He concludes that it must be from John’s bed. He feels the sofa dip as John sits down next to him and slides in closer so their outer thighs rest against each other. John pulls the rest of the blanket over his own shoulders and joins the ends together in front of them; effectively cocooning themselves together. 

“Better?” John smiles at Sherlock.

Sherlock can't speak. This simple gesture is better than anything he's ever imagined. John is surrounding him completely. His scent and the soft fabric that has rested against his skin envelopes him in entirety. He can only sigh and relax further into the _John cocoon._

“Oi,” John exclaims. Sherlock looks at him with concern. “Almost forgot.” Under the blanket John's fingers brush across Sherlock's legs until they find Sherlock's hand resting on his upper thigh. John's fingertips skim up the back of Sherlock’s hand and come to rest around the wrist where his thumb resumes its soft circles. Sherlock shivers.

“There.” John says leaning back and closing his eyes; the blanket enclosure almost swallowing him. “Both all sorted, then?” He breathes. It is not quite a question.

The warmth of the cocoon increases as their trapped body heat accumulates. John's gentle, persistent touch is _so much_ and yet not quite enough. Sherlock’s ache is starting to grow like a gnawing flame. His breathing increases, though he cannot pinpoint why. 

“John,” Sherlock whispers after a moment. 

John’s half-shuddered eyes slide to Sherlock. He is smiling contentedly. “Yes, Sherlock.” He sits up a little. “What else?” 

Sherlock forces himself to breathe slowly. His eyes drift to John's lips and the studious doctor seems to understand. His dark blue eyes became more alert and his tongue darts out to sweep across his lips, slicking them.

“I deduce that your lips become significantly parched,” Sherlock says maintaining a calm demeanor though he feels things fluttering inside his stomach and chest. This is definitely a suggestion that will take them out of the bounds of friendly behaviours. “You consume copious amounts of tea and yet frequently wet your lips with your… _tongue_.” Sherlock’s voice loses power on the last word. The enclosure tightens around him as John slides closer and angles his body inward. 

“Yeah?” John seems surprised but not particularly concerned or resistant to the idea.

“Well, you could, of course, have your tea, John,” Sherlock rambles quickly. He can feel the fear rising in him. John will surely pull away and paid he should just be content with this perfect cocoon. “In fact, you may wish to partake of it soon before it cools. You do dislike lukewarm tea.” 

“Or?” John presses.

“Or…” Sherlock dips his head and closes the distance between he and John so their lips are millimeters away “You could let me…” Sherlock breathes. He can feel John's warm wet breath against his own lips.

“Yes,” John whispers. Sherlock rests his lips against John's, applying barely any pressure, and remains there a moment, adjusting to the new sensation of it. John's lips are surprisingly soft and supple. They yield with each minor flex of Sherlock’s lips. He takes in the sensation of John's perfectly cleft chin resting against his own and his nose against his cheek. John's breath is getting harsher the longer he stays poised there, motionless, and he feels the ex-soldier straining not to take more. 

At last, Sherlock parts his lips and runs his tongue gently across John’s lips. He can taste tea and the undercurrents of mint from John’s toothpaste, and something rich but subtle that is uniquely John. Sherlock hears a groan and is surprised to realize it is emitted from himself. John seems to melt a little and responds with a deeper sound of his own, something closer to a growl. Sherlock inhales sharply as the memory of his poolside fantasy makes a sudden, painful surge of desire pulse below his waist. He pulls away.

“Christ,”John mutters in a strangled voice. Sherlock feels woozy and disoriented. His heart is racing and he can't quite focus on John. John's hand on Sherlock's wrist slides to his forearm and his other hand grasps his thin upper arm to steady him. 

"It's fine. We're fine," John reassures. They both take a moment to pull themselves together. At last, Sherlock focuses on John.

“More, John?”

“Oh, god, yes,” John breathes. He pulls Sherlock towards him. His fingers tangled in Sherlock's hair as the detective thoroughly explores his mouth. His tongue presses and caresses, licks, invites and sometimes battles with John. He attempts various degrees of pressure, pressing, then pulling and sucking on lips and nearly unraveling with each new sound he manages to elicit from John. 

His imagination, having very little context, had fallen far short of the true experience

. The ex-soldier shows incredible restraint in attempting to stay steady and unassuming. He allows Sherlock to lead, showing him new moves occasionally, which Sherlock quickly duplicates, but John always stops himself and goes pliant whenever he becomes too excited.

It drifts into evening before Sherlock at last withdraws his lips. They are both thoroughly flushed, kiss bruised and feeling somewhat sated. Sherlock pushes John back onto the couch and rests his head on the doctor's chest, wrapping the covers around them tightly. They both work to catch their breath. As Sherlock listens to the rapid thump of John's heart, he is seized by the thrill that he has made that heart beat rapidly. He can almost imagine they are one like this; two parts of a whole, encapsulated in one body.

“John,” Sherlock whispers. 

John huffs out a laugh. “Yes, Sherlock?” He pushes his fingers into Sherlock's hair and massaged his fingertips against his scalp. Sherlock’s eyes slide closed. “What can I do for _me_ now?”

“I deduce that you are a healthy male of a certain sexual appetite and it has been ten weeks, four days and nine hours since you have engaged in sexual relations.” 

John laughs. “God, that long?” 

“Indeed, John. You could continue your somewhat unsatisfactory efforts at self-stimulation…”

“Or?” John’s heart is racing again and his chest heaves rapidly. Sherlock smiles into John's chest.

“Or…” Sherlock purrs pulling the covers up over his head.

Sherlock closes his eyes, lost in feeling and listening to the new symphony of sounds filling the flat with notes he never knew existed. The whole world drops away, closed down to a single point of John Watson cocooned against him.

Sherlock drinks it all in; the sound of lips against flesh, the sighs, the growls, the moans and his name on John’s lips with desperation and desire, then praise and at last like a sacred prayer.


End file.
